


ain't no mercy in my smiling, only fangs and sweet beguiling

by mercutioes



Category: Original Work
Genre: Multi, firebrands: extremely fucky pirates edition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 20:58:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13303089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercutioes/pseuds/mercutioes
Summary: we do what we must to survive





	1. pay heed the squall

**Author's Note:**

> collected fic for parsimony travail and our game of firebrands: pirate edition
> 
> main title from "snake song" by isobel campbell and mark lanegan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a beginning

Parsimony’s been briefed by Yerba, their resident medical drone, on their captive’s condition - at least, that’s the word Yerba used when she was referring to the injured Bantraeshi.  Parse doesn’t take captives, as a general rule - while the options for captured combatants boil down to  _ join or die _ , at least it’s a  _ choice _ .

They’re not sure what they’re expecting when they pull the curtain aside to step into the medbay, but it’s certainly not a wild-eyed, bedraggled,  _ beautiful _ noble listing to one side and brandishing a syringe like it’s a dagger, poised to stab them.

But they’re weak, injured, and Parse knocks it out of their hand easily, the needle clattering to the floor.  They twist the Bantraeshi by the wrist until they’re forced to lay back down on the cot.  The kid almost  _ growls _ at Parse and they can’t help but smile.  They like them already.

“Careful now,” they say, pulling a stool up to the bedside.  “You’re not going anywhere, your highness.”

“Fuck off,” the Bantraesh spits, and now Parsimony  _ does _ laugh.

“Why don’t we start with introductions.  I’m Captain Travail.”  They stick out their hand.  “And you are?”

The kid stares at them for a long moment, eyes too sharp for the amount of pain they must be in between the broken ribs and the shooting pains that must be running up their legs.  Parse lets their hand fall.

“Caoilfhionn Calsoubhsí.  Why didn’t you let me die?”

“Slow down, Caoilfhionn.”  Parsimony leans back on the stool, props their boots up near the middle of the bed - if their heels happen to land dangerously close to a gash in Caoilfhionn’s hip, all the better.  They catch the noble’s almost-flinch in the set of their jaw and it makes Parse grin.

“Here’s how I see it, Caoilfhionn,” Parse says, drawling slow and dangerous, honey on every syllable of their name.  “You’re not a captive, here.  We don’t do that.”  They pause.  “ _ I  _ don’t do that.”

“Then let me go.”

“Now, I can’t do  _ that _ ,” Parse says.  “First of all, you’re in no state to go  _ anywhere _ .  Second, that’s not part of the bargain I’m offering.  Here’s what I  _ am  _ offering: I can kill you --”

“I choose that.”  Parsimony magnanimously ignores the interruption.

“ _ Or _ you can join us.  I saw the way you fought, you’d be invaluable in the water.”

“You blew up my goddamn ship,” Caoilfhionn says, pure vitriol in each sharp sound.  “ _ You  _ did this to me.  Why the  _ fuck _ would I join you?”

“Because I’m charming and persuasive?”  Caoilfhionn’s face doesn’t shift at all from their scowl scowl, and Parsimony sighs.  “I  _ saw _ you fight, and I also saw that your heart isn’t in it.  The Bantraesh have fucked the both of us over as many times as I can count.”

Parsimony leans forward, feet planted on the ground and suddenly dead serious.  They hover over Caoilfhionn, one hand planted on the mattress, mere inches away from the noble’s face.

“If you join me, Caoilfhionn,” they say, and delight in the shudder that goes through them when they walk their fingers feather-light over Caoilfhionn’s cracked and bandaged ribs.  “We can fuck them up together.”

Parse is close enough to feel the way Caoilfhionn’s breath shudders over their lips, close enough to see the way their eyes glaze over, just a bit.   _ There _ .

“Fine, Travail,” mutters Caoilfhionn, and Parsimony smiles wide and digs two fingers into their ribs.  Caoilfhionn bites back a pained shout.

“That’s  _ Captain _ Travail to you, Calsoubhsí,” they say, standing and straightening their coat around their shoulders.  “Yerba will be back in to take care of you.  Welcome aboard.”

They can hear Caoilfhionn spit on the ground as they turn on their heel and walk away, and their grin widens.  They’re going to have  _ fun _ with this one.

\--

Caoilfhionn walks into the captain’s cabin, leaning heavily on their cane - they’ve only just been cleared by Yerba to walk full-time after weeks of physical therapy in the medbay.  They’ve brought the maps that Captain Travail requested, though they’re a couple hours late because of a mix-up with the ship’s rendezvous point.

They almost don’t register what’s going on until they’re two full steps inside the threshold.

“Captain, I --  _ fuck _ .”

“Calsoubhsí,” they say, cool as anything.  As if they aren’t stripped to the waist, covered in sweat, with a  _ goddamn flogger _ in their hand and  _ someone bent over their goddamn bed. _  Caoilfhionn splutters.

“Either close the door and join us or leave.”  They’re still not looking at Caoil and all they can do is stare at Captain Travail’s shoulders, covered in dark swathes of freckles and scars and tattoos.  Their scarred knuckles gripped tight around the handle of the flogger.

They drop the maps on the table and leave in a rush, but the image feels like it’s branded on the backs of their eyelids for days to come.

\--

Days turn into weeks turn into a month or so and Captain Travail becomes Parsimony becomes Parse, at least when Caoil’s in their cabin, bent over maps and Bantraesh intelligence.  Parsimony’s realized the value of Caoil’s familiarity with the Bantraesh naval forces and taken them on as a sort of consultant while every day they gain back more and more control over their legs.

All the while, though, Caoilfhionn can’t shake what they saw, can’t shake the rumors that fly around Parsimony and the sounds Caoil can hear faintly when they  _ just happen _ to pass by the captain’s door late at night.  Caoil finds their own fucks among the crews of the Revolution, try to keep going like before, but there’s an itch now at the back of their head that their encounters just don’t scratch like they used to.

That itch is at its least insistent when they’re with the captain - when Parsimony grins at them in approval, the rich, low buzz of their voice praising an insight that Caoil’s put forth, the flash of their eyes on Caoil’s neck when they come in with fresh marks on their skin.  The low bubbling of resentment doesn’t go away - far from it.  But it’s accompanied now by flashes of fantasy, a hand around their neck, a cord around their wrists, a dagger at their throat.

It’s a month and a half after Caoil joined up when Parsimony finally calls them on it.

Caoilfhionn’s on the bench between the map table and the wall, back up against the worn wooden boards.  They’d been talking strategy but it had devolved quickly into drinks and an increasingly familiar companionable quiet.  Parsimony’s sprawled on their bunk and Caoil can’t stop stealing glances at the white rope wound around the headboard, clearly well-used, and the barely-visible handle of a rattan cane under the bed and Parsimony’s sharp eyes on their face.

“Caoilfhionn,” they say, and there’s a low edge in their voice that sends Caoil’s blood buzzing.

“Yeah?”  They try to keep their voice as neutral as they can.  They’re not sure it’s working.

“Is there something you want?”

“I --”  They can’t finish that thought, don’t know how to ask for what Parsimony’s giving.  They’ve never  _ been  _ on this side of the bargain and certainly not with someone like… well, someone like  _ them _ .  Parsimony hums, contemplative, and rises to sit next to Caoil on the bench.  They’re dressed down for the night and their shirt shows off the sharp, freckled line of their collarbones and Caoil has to look away before they do something  _ stupid _ .

“Let’s do it this way then,” they say.  They’re not looking at Caoil and for that they’re grateful because they’re not sure they could handle this if they were.  “I think you know what I like.  And I’m extending that offer to you, if you’re interested.”  Their hand lands searing warm on Caoil’s thigh.  “Something tells me you’re interested.”

“I don’t usually --”  Caoil wets their lips, their voice coming raspy and hoarse.  “I’m used to being on the other end of the deal.”  Parsimony makes a considering noise.

“Don’t worry,” they say, voice hot near Caoil’s ear.  “I’ll take my time breaking you in.”

They laugh at Caoil’s involuntary shudder.


	2. rum, sodomy, and the lash (nsfw)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an interlude, a scene

“Comfortable?”

Caoilfhionn honest-to-god  _ growls _ at that, and Parsimony can’t help but laugh.  Caoil’s bent over the table, chest and cheek pressed flat against the map of Bantral and hands gripping at the edge above their head to keep themselves in place.

“You know, I was thinking I’d let you pick this time,” Parsimony muses, stepping around Caoilfhionn and running an assessing hand down their spine.  “What would you like, pet?”

“I don’t  _ care _ , Parse,” Caoilfhionn spits, and they get Parse’s nails digging into the back of their neck as reprimand.  Caoil tosses their head in an attempt to shake them off, but Parsimony just digs in deeper, gripping tighter, until Caoil goes limp.

“I suppose that means I get to choose, huh.”

They take their time, staying carefully out of Caoilfhionn’s field of vision, letting them squirm.  Parsimony watches their hands clench on the edge of the table, delights in the tremble in their muscles before choosing a simple rattan cane.  They strike it in the empty air once, twice, fast and sharp enough to make a whipping sound that makes Caoil’s back muscles tense and fingers curl tighter.  Parse grins.

“For the amount of backtalk you’ve given me today, Caoil, I ought to ensure you don’t sit for the next goddamn  _ month _ .  Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Since when does it matter what  _ I _ –”

They’re cut off with a cry as Parse takes the first swing, hits right at the sweet spot where their thighs meet their ass and usually they’d work up to this but Caoil needs a heavier hand tonight, it seems.  The first strike is followed by a few lighter blows, up from their thighs to the top of their ass.  Caoil bites back their noises but their muscles jump all the same, hips coming up off the table just slightly with each stroke.

“I asked you a  _ question _ , Caoil.”

“An’ I gave you an answer,” they snap, lifting their head to glare back at Parsimony.  Parse lets their gaze go steely-cold, mouth turning down in displeasure.

“You know, Caoil,” they say, leaning forward and getting a fistful of their hair.  “I thought we’d worked past this but apparently we have to start all over again.”  And then they’re yanking Caoil off the table and down to the ground, onto their knees on the wooden floorboards.  They use the cane to correct Caoil’s position, moving their arms and legs until they’re on hands and knees, back ramrod straight and head hanging.  Two sharp steps take Parse to the chest in the corner and they pull the leash and collar from it, supple leather between their fingers.

Wordless, they snap the collar onto Caoil’s neck, hook the leash into it and wrap the leash around their free hand.  The change in Caoil is instantaneous, the muscles in their neck and jaw relaxing and lips going slack.  Parse gives the leash a quick tug, just enough to make Caoil gasp.

“There, now,” Parse purrs, keeping the leash taut and running the tip of the cane down the length of Caoil’s spine.  “Now you’ve remembered your place, haven’t you?”  They wait expectantly for an answer but none comes.  They bring the cane down twice on Caoil’s ass and Caoil releases a dry sob.

“ _ Yes _ , yes, cap’n, I’m sorry, I --”  Another blow, then another, raining down faster than Caoil can process, unpredictable and sharp and deliciously agonizing.  Parse can tell that Caoil wants to writhe, wants to move away from the burn so they grip the leash tighter, tug until Caoil’s head pulls back in line with the beautiful arc of their spine.

Parse doesn’t stop until there are tears running down Caoil’s cheeks, until they’re taking great heaving, shuddering breaths and their ass and thighs are a lovely scarlet, marred with delicate welts in neat, criss-crossing rows.  Parse can feel the slightest sheen of sweat on their own skin and their arm has started to burn from the motion.

“What do you say, sweetheart?”

“Thank you, captain, thank you, I’m sorry, I --”

“Shh,” they murmur, tugging the leash until Caoil sits back, smiling at the wince when their welted ass rests on their heels.  “There’s a good pet.”  Parse moves to crouch in front of them, kissing their forehead and running a hand down their trembling chest, down lower to where their inner thighs shine with sweat and slick mixed together.

“So desperate,” they purr, fingertips teasing through the thatch of curls at the apex of Caoil’s thighs.  They whine, high and thin, their eyes still hazy and red-rimmed from crying.  “Wouldn’t take much to get you off, pretty thing.”

“No, sir,” Caoil breathes, and Parse grins.

“I suppose you  _ did _ take your punishment well,” they say, sliding the thick handle of the cane between Caoil’s legs and positioning it so they can rut down.  The surface is rough but it seems to work just fine based on the soft, broken noises they make as they grind their slick cock down onto the lacquered wood.

They were right - it doesn’t take long at all before Caoil’s shuddering and coming with a punched-out cry.  Parse strokes over their hair, carefully sliding the cane out from between their thighs and setting it to the side.  It takes a few long minutes until Caoil’s not shaking so much anymore and Parsimony can guide them up to the bunk, still holding onto their leash.  That won’t come off until later, when Caoil’s eyes aren’t as hazy and their head not so far off.

“You did good for me, baby,” they murmur into Caoil’s hair, and they can feel Caoil’s tiny smile pressed into their chest.


	3. hot as a wandering sun (nsfw)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what comes after?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Do you ever think about what you're going to do after this?"  
> "I try my best not to."  
> "No, seriously. What are you going to do?"  
> "I want to keep sailing. Not for this. Just for me. I don't think I've ever sailed just for me."

Here’s how it goes:

The Calsoubhsí house goes down in flames and the cliffside crumbles and Parse kisses the two of them in exhilaration, bobbing in the water and smeared with ash and  _ safe _ .

The war isn’t over - Parse knows they won’t see the end of it, not in their lifetime.  But the tides have shifted, the targets have changed.  The Calsoubhsí attack was a turning point and three more Bantraesh houses fall neatly after its demise.

The Solar Union sends more troops (“peacekeepers” in name only) but their business is with keeping the Bantraesh in line.  And if the offworlders and the Bantraesh want to slowly drive each other into nothingness, Parse isn’t going to complain.

They’re  _ tired _ .

There’s a moment, when Replevy and Parsimony are standing on the deck of _The_ _Skyweave’s Edge_ , watching the last smoldering embers of the Desrosiers estate, hand in hand.

“I think it’s time to think about after,” Rep says, and Parse laughs.

“You know I hate thinking about that.”

\--

Parsimony Travail kisses Replevy and Caoilfhionn goodbye one gold and gleaming morning in the summer, just off the rocky coast of Seahawk’s Landing.  It’s lingering and it’s bittersweet but Parse knows that this is what they all need, really.

And besides, they made a promise in that cabin.

So they climb onto their sailboat - unnamed, as of yet, with a single cabin and a single mast - and look towards the horizon.  If they looked back, they’d see the dwindling shapes of Caoil and Rep but they don’t.  Can’t.

Then it’s just the salt breeze on their skin and nothing but blue, blue,  _ blue _ against the distant coastline and Parsimony cries for the first time in years.

\--

The days blur into each other when you’re that far out on the water.  They’re in contact with the outside world - they’re not so dumb as to go sailing on their own without some kind of emergency line, but they try to keep that contact to a minimum.

They get pictures from Caoilfhionn and Replevy.  Some are completely mundane, some less so - the two of them on the deck of _The_ _Skyweave’s Edge_ or a candid of Caoil asleep or one of Replevy drawing maps, bent over in concentration.

One day comes a photo of the Falcrest mansion razed to the ground, Replevy’s grin a vibrant and vicious slash across their face as they watch it burn, and Parsimony yells and punches the air even though there’s no one around to witness them except the dolphins.

They send pictures back, too.  The sunrise on an early morning, pinks and yellows washed across the sky.  A picture of themself, grinning against the sparkle of the blue waters.  Snapshots from the small fishing towns they’ll dock in sometimes, places on Bantral that they’ve never been before.  Parsimony delights in it, the thrill of exploration and discovery and a night on solid ground.  Sometimes they’ll spend it with company - they haven’t changed  _ that _ much after all - but sometimes they’ll remain alone, soaking in the sounds of the coast.

There are bad nights, though.  There are nights where Parsimony wakes up in the tangle of sheets and half-imagines their husband’s brutish hold on them or when there’s a sudden thunderstorm and they sit shivering for hours, jumping at every crack and rumble.  There are times where they’re half-dreaming and half-waking and the faces of everyone they’ve ever killed swim across their vision.  Everyone they’ve ever used or hurt or shot or --

Those are the nights where they drop the anchor and strip and dive off the side of the boat, deep and deeper until there’s nothing but silence and the heavy press of water around them and they can float, weightless, until they have to breathe again and they surface, gasping.

Those nights come fewer and further between as they sail on and on and on.

\--

Eventually, though, pictures and words aren’t enough and there’s a visceral  _ ache _ in their chest and they know it’s time to turn back home.

They dock at Seahawk’s Landing in the early, gray hours of the morning.  It’s quiet save for the first calls of seabirds and the rhythmic slapping of waves against the shoreline.  Parse steps off the boat, a little shaky on firm ground, and starts off towards Replevy’s house.  They approach slow, up the winding dirt path that opens up to the house, wood and stone and uneven windows set into the side.

Caoil’s outside, shirtless and going through their physical therapy stretches there on the cool grass, and Parse’s breath catches at the sight of them.  They’ve let their hair grow, they notice, and they look… less  _ sharp _ , in a way.  They look up, finally noticing Parse, and scramble to their feet, running as best they can to throw themself into Parse’s arms.

“Hey, puppy,” they say, laughing when Caoil growls and buries their head tighter into Parse’s hair.

“You’re never leaving for that long again,” they say, and the petulance in their voice makes Parse laugh harder, hold them tighter.

“Where’s Rep?”

Replevy turns out to be inside, in the kitchen making some kind of fried flatbread that smells  _ incredible _ , and Parse’s heart clenches.

“Never thought I’d see Captain Skua go domestic,” they say and Rep whirls around, eyes wide.  Before Parse knows it, they’re swept up in his arms, his face buried in their hair.

“I’m never letting you go that long again,” he says, and Parsimony laughs into his shoulder, arms tightening around his waist.

“Funny, that’s what Caoil said.”

“An’ I meant it.”

And then they’re kissing, all three of them, right there in the kitchen -- that is, until whatever Rep’s making starts burning and they have to reluctantly let go.

The two of them spend the day showing Parse around Seahawk’s Landing, the winding rocky paths that span the whole breadth of the island.  It’s clearly in a state of upheaval but Parse can see signs of recovery everywhere, places where the Falcrest symbols have been painted over or burned out.

“I’m real proud o’ you, Rep,” they murmur,  and Replevy smiles, grips their hand tighter.

\--

Eventually, Caoil’s legs begin to tire and they head back to Replevy’s house.  The sun’s beginning to set, pinks and golds washing over the horizon, and the light comes through the windows and paints Replevy’s home with warm hues.

They sit in the living room and pretend for perhaps a full five minutes that they’re not all thinking the same thing before giving up and stumbling into the bedroom, unable to keep their hands off each other.  Once they make it across the threshold in a tangle of limbs, Parse extricates themself from Rep and Caoil’s embrace and takes a step back to gaze around the room, taking in the rumpled bed and the books haphazardly stacked on the small bookshelf and Replevy’s sword propped up against the dresser.

They can’t help but  _ also _ notice the cane in the corner and the rope hanging off the headboard.

“You’ve been busy,” Parse notes, and Caoil snorts, breaking away from Replevy.

“Some things you just can’t live without,” they say, grin sharp.

“That so?”  Parse steps in, slides their fingers vice-like around Caoil’s wrist, and the breath goes out of them in a rush.  Oh, Parse has  _ missed this _ .  “You been takin’ good care of them, Rep?”

“Of course,” she says, snaking her arms around Caoil’s waist from behind.  “I take real good care of you, don’t I?”

“Yeah,” Caoil breathes, eyes slipping to half-mast and body going loose, and Parse and Replevy share a satisfied smile over their shoulder.

From there, it’s as easy as slipping into a well-practiced dance, familiar and instinctual.  Parse and Replevy press Caoil down onto the bed, press lips and teeth into their throat and chest and stomach and press their hips down when they try to buck up.

Soon though, Replevy tugs Parse into her lap, captures their lips.  Caoil whines and tries to follow but Parse gives them a stern look and pushes Caoil back down with a firm hand on their sternum.

“Stay, Caoil,” they say, voice gone breathy from Replevy’s lips wandering down their throat.  “You’ll get your turn soon enough.”  Caoil’s eyes flash but they do as they’re told, hands clenching at their sides as they watch Replevy peel Parse out of their clothes and flip them over to get her mouth on their cunt.

It doesn’t take long at all for Parse to shake apart on Replevy’s tongue, hands fisted in her hair and exultant grin on their lips.  There’s a long, tenuous moment when Parse is coming down and Replevy’s wiping her mouth on the back of her hand and Caoil  _ whines _ , lip caught between their teeth.

“Good girl,” Parse murmurs, sliding out from under Replevy to straddle Caoil and capture their lips.  Caoil shudders, tries to deepen the kiss but Parse keeps it light, teasing, infuriatingly slow.

“ _ Cap’n, _ ” Caoil breathes, desperate, and Parse laughs and Replevy grins.

“Some things never change,” they say, running their hands up Caoil’s arms to their wrists and pressing them into the pillow above Caoil’s head.  “Those are gonna stay there, pet.”

“Yes, cap’n.”  The words settle warm and satisfying in Parse’s gut as they bite rough at Caoil’s chest, down the line of their torso, at the vee of their hips - no delicate love bites now, just the kind of sharp, stinging pain that makes Caoil arch up and whimper and clench their hands in the pillow.

Parse finally takes pity on them and eats them out, messy and rough.  They dig nails into Caoil’s hips, drag furrows down their thighs and work their cock until Caoil’s almost-screaming for them - for the both of them, when Replevy sees they’re close and reaches over to tweak their nipples between her fingers and drag her nails down their chest.

Caoil comes twice under Parse’s tongue and, after, they’re trembling and their breath comes heavy as Parse and Rep kiss over their face, their neck, their myriad splotchy bruises.  Parse shoots Replevy a questioning look when Caoil’s calmed and she shakes her head -  _ not tonight _ .

They fall asleep in a messy tangle of limbs, too loose and fucked-out and elated to even think about leaving the bed for anything.

\--

Parsimony kisses them goodbye on that same dock, months later.  It’s as clear and golden as the first time they left, but this time there’s not so much bitterness in the air between their lips.

This time, when Parse looks to the horizon, full with the knowledge that they can come  _ back _ , they can only laugh, exultant, into the sunrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a news story, a retrospective with historians and talking heads -- "The Fall of Calsouhbsi: Ten Years Later". There are pictures of the crumbling, burning house and there is conjecture and there are experts consulted on what happened, what went wrong, who holds responsibility.
> 
> But the three most responsible? They're not watching. No, the three of them are on the deck of a small sailing vessel, champagne and whiskey and the heat of lips and wide smiles -- a little softer, now, creases at the corners of them from time and wear. But the heat is still there, hands and mouths and teeth and gasping underneath the oranges and pinks of Bantral's sunset.


End file.
